


Forestay

by Farasha



Series: Any Port in a Storm [6]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Amputation, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Medical Procedures, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4081093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farasha/pseuds/Farasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Forestay: A line of rigging which keeps the mast from falling backward.</i>
</p><p>After Charleston, certain truths come to light that have Flint and Silver's relationship hanging by a thread.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Salt spray and gunpowder tasted like ash in Flint's mouth. Plumes of bright fire and white, billowing smoke rose from the town as he put it to his rudder, the stern chasers firing until the coast was out of range. First it had been Thomas who was denied a Christian burial, laid to rest in an unmarked grave outside the churchyard for the mortal sin of taking his own life. Now it was Miranda, consumed on the pyre of their rage. 

Perhaps it was fitting, then, to let James McGraw slip beneath the waves into his own watery grave. The three of them, separated by death and fire and water, lost to time with none left to mourn them. It was not the man he had wanted to lay to rest, but it was a fitting end for the man who had failed so utterly - in protecting those he loved, in achieving either of his goals. Even his judgment in people seemed faulty. Peter had betrayed them so very long ago, and yet not a single inkling of that betrayal had ever crossed his mind. Were it not for Miranda, he never would have known.

The deadened feeling in his chest expanded until he didn't know how he was still drawing breath. If Miranda had not come, she would still be alive and safe in Nassau. Flint might be dead, or he might be on his way back to England to bare his soul down to its marrow for the men he had sworn never to grovel before. Either fate would be preferable to this.

"-tain. Captain?"

Flint turned from the rail, straightening his shoulders, gathering the last vestiges of his composure around him like a cloak. "What is it, Billy?"

"Vane and his men," Billy said, a hard frown on his face. "If they're to stay on board back to Nassau, where would you have them bunk?"

It was such a practical question that it threw him for a moment. "There's an officer's quarters astern below mine," Flint said. "Vane can bunk there with whichever members of his crew he pleases. The rest will string their hammocks in the hold with the ballast."

"It'll be best to keep them on opposite ends of the ship as much as possible," Billy said. "The crew won't stand for 'em walking around."

There was something off about the way the crew was behaving. He looked out over the deck, where they were slowly freeing Vane's men from their imprisonment, and despite the thick fog that seemed to wrap around his senses, he could see the hot glares of loathing his crew wore.

"However flattered I am at their apparent loyalty, I can't imagine they're so upset about Vane taking the ship," Flint said, keeping his voice low to keep it from traveling to Vane's ears. The other captain was watching him with a narrow-eyed, calculating look. "Well done on that, Billy - I had expected to return and find Vane in command."

"It wasn't just me," Billy said. "That's the other thing I need to talk to you about. The crew wants a vote."

Despite himself, Flint's spine locked into a tight, stiff line. "Vote?"

"For quartermaster," Billy said.

Flint looked around the deck again, searching for Mr. Scott - but there he was, still alive. "Who do they want to vote for?"

Billy hesitated, his eyebrows knitting together. "They want Silver."

The name was like a splash of cold water to his face, breaking through the numbness he was wrapped in. He looked the deck over again, but he didn't see the Silver. "Not that long ago half the crew was ready to see him overboard, and now they want to elect him quartermaster."

The hesitation was longer this time. "When Vane first took the ship, he made to set sail immediately back to Nassau. Most of us were convinced the crew would be put to sword. Then, out of nowhere, the forestay gives. He cut it. Silver. Crawled out on the bowsprit himself - Vane had to drop anchor to fix it. Then he went below to find Silver."

"Vane found him?" Flint's eyes snapped to Billy, to the careful expression on his face, and his hand tightened on the rail until his knuckles turned white.

"Far as I saw, he was fine when they came back up. Silver must've said something to Vane, though, because that's about the time he decided to go get you. It wasn't until after Vane left that everything went fucking sideways." Billy shifted, leaning on the railing. "Vane's quartermaster took Silver into the captain's cabin. They were trying to make him give up the crew, find men willing to betray you so they could sail without you or Vane."

Flint's mouth went dry. Dread clawed up from his stomach and emerged from his throat in a croak of, "Where is he?"

"With Dr. Howell," Billy said.

Flint nearly launched himself from the railing, his stride carrying him across the deck divorced from his conscious mind. Though the ship hadn't been his long, he knew every piece of her, and he knew where Dr. Howell had set up his rudimentary surgery.

"Captain!" Billy was coming after him, easily able to keep pace with him. "He's not awake, won't be for some time-"

Flint burst into the forecastle, the door banging against the hull. Most of the crew was on the weather deck, but here was Dr. Howell and the two crewmen he'd conscripted to be his assistants. They were all three of them spattered in blood, bent over the still figure on the table.

The breath seized in Flint's chest when he finally came close enough to see what they'd done to Silver. He stopped in his tracks, eyes fixed on the prone, bloodied form. Silver's face was pinched, though he was indeed unconscious. He was sweat-soaked, the front of his shirt plastered to him. All of that paled when compared with the stump of his left leg, still bleeding and raw.

"Again," Dr. Howell said, holding his hand out without looking up. One of his assistants startled and reached into the coals of the cook fire, drawing out a red-hot blade. Dr. Howell took it by the hilt and pressed its flat against the bleeding remainder of Silver's leg. The smell of burning skin filled the cabin. Flint felt like he might choke on it.

"What the _fuck_ did they do to him?" The snarl was his own voice, though it sounded foreign to his ears. Dr. Howell's assistant glanced up at him and then quickly looked away, placing the blade back in the fire to heat.

Billy caught up with him then, remaining out of arm's reach. Out of the corner of his eye, Flint could see the bosun eyeing him with a wariness he hadn't seen since the business with Singleton and the page. "Howell had to take the leg," he said. "Fucking animal had hacked it to pieces. There was no saving it."

The first question on the tip of his tongue was the name and location of the man responsible so he could be summarily keel-hauled. But there was a spark of vindictive satisfaction in Billy's eye, and Flint supposed he would have to be content with the knowledge of vengeance exacted, even if it hadn't been at his own hands.

Flint knew he should move. Standing here staring at Silver - it was dangerous to expose himself in this way. The men might know they shared a bunk when it suited them, but that was a far cry from what Flint was certain now showed on his face, a naked fury that had simmered like a banked coal since he ran Peter Ashe through the gut, leaving him to die slowly as his town burned down around him.

The roar of it coursing through him should have been surprising, but wasn't. He had felt this creeping up in him - this urge to possess and protect - since that night on the gun deck. The moment Silver had yielded under his hand had woken something fierce and familiar, a feeling he hadn't experienced in so long he'd thought that part of him lost forever.

"Go and get the other crew settled," he said, forcing the words out through a jaw that wouldn't unclench. "If I see Vane's fucking face, I'll kill him."

Billy left without a word, and Flint stayed where he was, a silent observer of the doctor's work. Twice more, they pulled the knife from the fire and seared it against ruined flesh. In between the doctor worked at stitching together what skin remained. It was a mercy that Silver was unconscious, but the downward pull of his mouth and the tightness in his face spoke of a man who had been awake for the worst of it.

Flint had seen terrible things happen to better men, but this was far worse - this had happened because of him, because of his ambitions and his unwillingness to bend. He was a plague. The Hamiltons had been happy before he came, and he had poisoned their lives and ruined them both. This was the price Silver paid for loyalty to him - loyalty that Flint had doubted, questioned, even dismissed.

It churned in his gut as he watched Dr. Howell's careful progress in bandaging, the stitching and cauterizing finished. This had happened because he'd been on shore playing at a life he should have buried a long time ago, instead of on his ship protecting his men.

Dr. Howell finally drew away, tying off the end of the bandage and wiping his bloodied hands on a cloth. He seemed to come back to himself, looking around the forecastle and startling to see Flint standing there. "Captain!" he said, surprise quite evident in his voice.

Flint forced himself to unclench his aching jaw. "How is he?"

"We've stopped the bleeding, and I've managed to close quite a bit of the wound." The doctor's manner was always brisque, and this was no different, but Flint found that it rankled him now when it never had before. "He'll live. The worry now is infection. I'll not want him out of his bunk for at least a week-"

"Put him in my cabin," Flint said immediately.

"Captain," the doctor began. "He'll need to be monitored-"

"I've seen a wound like this before," Flint said. As a midshipman, certainly, but the principle was the same with all wounds. "I know what to watch for. The window seats in my cabin are long enough, and it will be easier to keep pressure off the bandage if he can lie flat." He sounded detached to his own ears, but there was a tremor in his hands he could not quell. It was only through sheer force of will and long habit of self-preservation that he didn't add his last thought aloud - _I want him near me._

No doubt the men would guess his reasoning, but Flint wouldn't leave Silver to wake alone, or among the men, his recovery stifled by his need to play his part with them and conceal his vulnerabilities. At least in the cabin he would be afforded a modicum of privacy - and would be kept far away from Vane's crew.

Watching two of his men slowly lift Silver onto a stretcher was perhaps the biggest challenge to his restraint - he bit his tongue to keep from admonishing them to be careful, and his palms itched with the desire to carry Silver himself so he could be certain no further harm came to him. He had to bury that urge - it was enough that the doctor and his assistants had already seen him showing untoward interest. He didn't need the entire crew and Charles fucking Vane besides seeing any open affection between him and the man who would soon be his quartermaster.

He walked to the side of the stretcher as they brought Silver out on deck, and was privy to the sight of his men arrested by the mere sight of him. Silver had won their loyalty and their regard - and paid a heavy toll for it. Billy emerged from below, presumably having settled Vane and his crew, since Flint could see none of them on the weather deck.

"About that vote," Billy said, his eyes never leaving Silver's unconscious form on the stretcher.

"Might as well do it now while we have a chance," Flint said. "Do you think my presence would make it better or worse?"

"Honestly?" Billy asked, and waited for Flint's nod before continuing. "I don't think a damn thing on this earth could change their minds. They all know how you've been living in each other's pockets, and normally that'd give them some pause, but after what he did? They'll go through hell for him."

A sickening resentment boiled up inside him at the thought that the crew held Silver in more esteem than they held their captain. Flint swallowed it down, shoving it away - he had been a Navy man long enough to know that hard men made no friends on the crew, and he was certainly a hard man. It didn't matter whether the crew liked him. With Silver at his side, the two of them could play the crew to whatever tune they wished.

"I'll be in my cabin, then. I want to take us wide of the normal shipping lanes - I imagine England will not allow this to go unanswered, and I wish to be far away from these waters when their answer arrives." Flint stayed only long enough to receive Billy's nod of acknowledgement before he followed Dr. Howell's men into his cabin.

Under his direction, they settled Silver in what had become his customary place in the window seat. Flint waved them out as soon as they had finished. Billy's voice carried through the open door of his cabin, calling the men to vote, and then the door closed behind them.

The sound of it was like the closing of a coffin lid, sealing him away from the life and activity on the deck. Weariness stole over him like a shroud - Flint sat heavily in his chair at his desk. His hands moved on their own, sorting through charts until he came upon the one detailing the coast of the colonies and the Spanish territory south of it. Once it was in front of him, though, he stared at it with a blank mind, all intent of plotting their course gone from him.

It had been Thomas's last wish as he was taken from them that the two people he loved most should keep each other safe, take care of each other, perhaps carry each other through the inevitable grief. Flint had instead allowed his blind dedication to Nassau steer his course. He couldn't banish the memory of Miranda's lifeless body propped up in that casket, a spectacle and a figure of hatred where she might have once been a woman of renown.

Shame choked him like the noose he had escaped. Perhaps he should have refused Vane's help. Perhaps he should have been hanged - it would not have mattered to the audience whether he tried himself for the crime of ruthless ambition while they tried him for the things he had done to survive. Since he had assumed the persona of James Flint, he had always waited for the day when he could return to himself, cast aside the mask of ruthlessness and settle comfortably into his own skin once again. Now that was never to be - he _was_ James Flint.

The soft sound of shifting fabric came from behind him, and Flint glanced over his shoulder. Silver was trying to roll onto his side, arms wrapped around his chest. Flint rose from his chair and cast around until he found a woolen blanket. The air in the cabin was warm to him, but Silver had gone through a significant shock, lost a great deal of blood. He would be cold for some time. Flint drew the blanket over him, gently urging him to lie on his back once again, tucking it in firmly against his sides. Some of the shivering eased.

Flint pushed the hair that was plastered to Silver's forehead out of his face, tucking it behind his ears. This man had only ever known him as James Flint. He had been wary at first, but Flint was just as wary of him, and they had come together despite that. For all of their circling and testing of one another, Silver had risked himself to ensure that Flint wasn't hanged on shore, and had withstood torture rather than betray him. It was impossible to deny the baffling swell of warmth that spread through him when he looked down at the still figure on the window seat. If Silver could forgive him for this - if that was even possible - perhaps he could be James Flint.

A loud shout came from the weather deck, a thundering chorus of "Aye!" Flint's lips pulled into a small smile.

"I told you it was only a matter of time," he murmured, watching some of the lines ease from Silver's face as he began to warm under the blanket.

A knock came at the cabin door, and Flint returned to his desk, settling in front of the charts. "Enter."

Billy slipped into the cabin - he looked strange when he tried to move quietly, hunching his shoulders like he was trying to take up less space. "The ayes have it. We have a new quartermaster."

"I'll tell him when he wakes," Flint said. "We should swing wide from the coast. Set our course for Iucayonique, and we'll pass through the shallows between there and Bahama, approaching Nassau from the north."

"Aye, captain." Billy turned to go, and then hesitated, his eyes on Silver. Flint could see that he wanted to say something, but was holding it back.

"Out with it," he said.

"Just never thought I'd see the day," Billy said, nodding at Silver.

"He had already ingratiated himself to a good half of the crew before this, and the other half thought he was amusing enough to keep around."

Billy gave a little half-shrug. "I remember when he was speaking in favor of this expedition - when he said he'd love nothing more than to never see any of our faces again." He was looking Flint directly in the eye now, and Flint wondered if he might be asking if that was true anymore - or if there wasn't one face on the ship he wouldn't mind sticking around for.

Flint rolled that around in his mind for a long moment - but it was a hard thing, to go through what Silver had borne. He had no idea where they stood. "Circumstances change," he said finally. "Silver is nothing if not adaptable."

"That's the thing," Billy said. "I'm not convinced he'll be able to think about anyone besides himself. The quartermaster has to consider the whole crew."

"I could believe that if all he had done was cut the forestay, but this? If he was only out for himself, why not give the crew up?" Flint looked over his shoulder at Silver, his face finally smoothed out into peaceful sleep. "I trust him."

He looked back at Billy to find that the bosun's mouth pulled down in a frown. "Permission to speak freely?"

Flint eyed him from beneath lifted brows. "If you're about to ask if the only reason I feel that way is because we're fucking, you can hold your tongue," he said. Something jolted in the pit of his stomach when he said it - despite knowing that men of fortune such as themselves rarely cared about sodomy the way civilization did, he couldn't stop the prickling of long-held paranoia that surged through him.

"He's just as dangerous as you are, captain. In his own way," Billy said.

"It doesn't really matter, does it? The crew wants him, so that's the way it is. Dismissed."

Billy nodded to him and left the cabin without another word. Flint watched him go. The number of men who were loyal to _him_ on this ship numbered exactly two, from what he could tell - but they were a good two to have. Still, he had not expected Billy to feel the need to warn him about Silver.

Flint could almost call that _concern_ \- for his crew, but also for his captain. That was new, and it meant he was slipping. It was harder to maintain the facade of stoicism when it felt like the grief might pull him under. Grief for Miranda, but also grief for Thomas - he was the only one who carried his lover's memory now, and even after ten years the wound felt raw and bleeding.

A memory rose to mind - not of ten years ago, but of three days before, when they had still been full of hope that their plan might succeed. Unexpectedly, it was Miranda's words about Silver that came to him, what she had said to quell his anger when he had realized Silver was listening to them speak of Thomas. 

"You're right - he isn't Thomas, and he never will be. Thomas saw the best in people, and I believe Silver sees the worst because he must - because that is how he learned to survive," she had said. "But you could be good for each other, I think, if you ever let him in. No man is an island, James."

No man is an island. Flint had lived as an island for so many years, it felt as if he had been weathered away by the pounding of the seas until he was little more than barren sand. Miranda had been his one guiding star in all that loneliness. Always, he had felt torn between two worlds. The sea was in his blood, and it always would be - his pretty promises to Miranda about disappearing to a quiet life on the interior of the island had felt like they killed a piece of his soul every time they passed his lips. Yet he did not relish the exhaustion of maintaining a command, the ugly necessity of death in their occupation, or the capricious nature of their fortunes.

With Miranda gone from him, it felt as if both of them had been laid to rest at last, and Flint was not two men but one. He was the pirate captain, one of the most feared in these waters, the one merchant ships surrendered to without a shot rather than face his blade.

A hot wave of rage and loathing swept through him, and he seized the nearest thing that came to hand and hurled it against the wall of his cabin. He was on his feet before he knew it, chest heaving with harsh breaths. For one sickening, sinful moment, Flint had felt freer than he had in years. With no obligations to tether him and no future to carry on his shoulders, his course had seemed simpler. How dare he - Miranda was _dead_ , and it was because of _him_.

Flint had never shared the fondness for alcohol that many of his fellow sailors did - he disliked the way it made him feel out of control of himself. Now, though, he found he could no longer wallow in the depths of his own mind without something to dull the pain. He was directionless without Thomas's dream to guide him and Miranda to serve as his rudder. There was no future for him save for a violent life that would win him nothing but infamy and enemies.

There was a thump from behind him, and he turned to see that Silver had shifted in the seat until his head had slipped, hitting the edge of the low rail. His eyes were cracked open, but it wasn't true wakefulness - sleep, and likely a dose of precious laudanum from the doctor's stores, clouded his gaze. As Flint watched him, his eyelids slipped closed again until the lashes rested against his cheeks like dark smudges.

Flint reached slowly into the bottom drawer of his desk, retrieving a small flask of strong rum, along with the wooden cup he kept there for the rare occasion when he wanted it. He poured a measure and downed it quickly, his eyes never leaving Silver, feeling it burn all the way into his gut. All that remained now was for Silver to wake, and for Flint to find out whether he had lost the last person who might care for him - or, if he was honest, for him to find out whether Silver cared for him at all.

Either possibility was too much to bear after the burden of sorrow he bore already. The third possibility, that they could truly have something and Flint did not have to face this uncertain future alone, was too tenuous for him to hope for.

He turned back to stare blankly at the charts and poured another finger of rum. Now, with the ship creaking around him as the crew began cracking on, unfurling the sails to catch the wind back to Nassau, he could only wait.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Wakefulness came slowly, and it came first with pain. Silver had the vague sense that he had nearly reached this state before, but always he had slipped back into unconsciousness. Now, when his eyes slid open, the boards of the deckhead came into focus. To his right was a window - he recognized it as one of the stern windows in Flint's cabin. Slowly, his arms trembling at the effort, he pushed himself up to a sitting position.

The weight of his legs was wrong. When he looked, the blanket that rested over them went flat below the knee of his left - bile rose in his throat, and he choked it back down, gritting his teeth. His fingers twitched, but he didn't reach to touch - if he didn't touch it, it wouldn't be real.

Motion caught his attention, and he looked up to find Flint sitting at his desk. The captain was looking over his shoulder, his eyes assessing and almost concerned. Silver licked his cracked lips and made to speak, but his voice came out as a whispery thread.

Immediately, Flint was on his feet, crossing over to him with a cup in his hand. Silver reached out to take it, his palm covering the warmth of Flint's fingers, reassuring himself that this was real - that Flint was alive and this wasn't a dream. He took a long drink from the cup. It was watered rum, but he was glad of both, the rum sending curls of warmth through his limbs and the water whetting his parched throat.

When he tried to speak this time, it came as a rough croak, but the words were still audible. "Where are we?"

Flint was looking at him with a strange expression, one Silver had never seen before on his face. His mouth pulled up in a smile, one that actually reached his eyes. He nearly looked fond - or at least, that was the only thing Silver could call the look on his face. "Just south of Inagua. Winds blew us east. We stopped off in Tortuga to refit and garner news - of which there was plenty." Silver drained the cup and set it aside, shifting to further sit up against the railing of the window seat. His expression must have betrayed his aching curiosity, for Flint continued. "Eleanor Guthrie's been arrested. Currently on her way back to London in the custody of Her Majesty's Navy to stand trial. For the first time since I've known it, there is no Guthrie in Nassau."

Silver's pulse began to trip, pounding in his breast. If Flint had heard news from Nassau - but no, he gave no indication that he knew anything about the gold, and if he had collected news as sensational as the arrest of Eleanor Guthrie, he would have heard about the riches of a lifetime arriving on the island.

There was a melancholy note in Flint's voice as he spoke of Nassau and Eleanor. Silver knew the two of them were close allies - he might even call them friends. Flint's eyes went to the stern windows, and there were shadows beneath them, like the man hadn't slept.

"One gets used to a state of affairs for such a long time, it's easy to forget that they're all just transitions. Specks of dust suspended in the air until a strong enough gust comes along and rearranges everything." Flint seemed to lean closer to Silver as he spoke, as if his body craved contact unconsciously. Silver glanced around the cabin, but it was only the two of them. Miranda was nowhere to be seen - nor, indeed, was there any evidence of her presence. No ladies' hairbrush on the cabin's table, no spare gowns tucked away in the corner.

"A strong gust has come to this place," Flint said, and Silver's gaze went back to him. "The men can feel it - know it will upset everything they thought they understood just a few days ago. They'll need to lean on something solid. On the men who can reassure them that in times like these, there are some things that can be counted on. They'll look to me for that, but they'll also look to their new quartermaster."

For a moment, Silver thought he heard a buzzing noise in his ears. Flint was looking at _him_ , still with that strange expression on his face. "They voted?" he asked, and his lips felt numb when he said it.

"A few days ago." Flint's smile widened.

The buzzing grew louder. "I..." he began, but trailed off. He didn't often find himself at a complete loss of words, but this was at once wholly unexpected and also horribly real. His mind wound back to their first encounter in Flint's cabin those many weeks ago, when Flint had first told him this was where he was wanted - at the captain's side, and at the head of the crew.

"I think the men wanted to tell you when you awoke, so try and act surprised."

Silver felt dizzy. Flint was _joking_ with him, and it was easy to tell the captain was pleased with this turn of events, pleased to have Silver here. His chest seized like it was locked in a vise, his heart pounding double time.

"It's a funny thing. The more those men need you, the more you need them - and it drives us to do the most unexpected things."

It was the _us_ that gave him a jolt. Flint was looking at him like he did think of them as an 'us,' and suddenly the cold stone of guilt in the bottom of his stomach once again rose to his throat and lodged there like a lump. "There's something you ought to know before we reach Nassau," he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "About what we'll likely face there."

Flint was still watching him, but the smile was beginning to fade, and it set Silver's fingers to tremoring. God, he didn't want this - he hadn't ever wanted this, but now was the worst possible time. He cleared his throat and continued, lies dripping off his tongue like poison. "Before my... misfortune at the hands of Vane's lieutenant, our friend - the scout you sent to oversee the Urca beach - confessed something to me. He told me that the news he brought us about the gold being recovered... was a lie. A falsehood he perpetuated himself so that he could sell the gold's location to another crew in exchange for a larger share of the prize."

Flint's face had fallen slowly as Silver spoke, and now it was locked in a horrible mask, his teeth clenched and his eyes hard. "He told you this?"

Silver didn't dare speak. He knew that if he did, his voice would give him away. He could only nod.

"I'm sorry, I'm..." there was a small tremor in Flint's voice, something that could be rage, but Silver thought it might actually be _hurt_. "I'm having a hard time... he lied to us all? And then he sold the information to another crew so that they could retrieve the gold?"

Silver had to swallow twice before he was able to answer, and even then, his voice emerged as a croak. "Yes."

Flint's jaw worked, the lines on his face deepening. The shadows under his eyes, the ones that had seemed almost banished by his smile, were hollow and pronounced. "Who the _fuck_ did he sell it to?"

The ache in Silver's chest threatened to swallow him whole. There would be no returning from this - the deception being Vincent's idea was nothing more than a pretty fiction, a smokescreen to hide the true guilty party. "Rackham," he said. "The _Colonial Dawn_."

Fury lit up Flint's face. Once, Silver would have shrunk from it, but now he only dropped his eyes, unable to look at what he'd wrought. "And this... this confession. He simply volunteered it to you, I suppose, because the men trust you _that much_." Flint spat those last words, and now Silver had no doubt - Flint knew it had been him.

Flint's boots fell heavy on the deck as he walked away, and Silver's trembling fingers clenched in the blanket over his lap. The remainder of his left leg was beginning to ache, a strange sensation like the missing toes were prickling. "James," he said, raw and full of regret even to his own ears.

"Don't," Flint said, short and clipped. Silver looked up to find he had braced himself on the desk with one hand, his head bowed. His shoulders sagged like a great burden rested on them. "I'll send Dr. Howell in to look you over. He wanted to know when you woke up."

"James-" Silver reached for him, uselessly, his fingers closing on empty air. "Wait, please."

A tremor went down the captain's spine, and for a moment his fingers clenched white-knuckled on the desk. But he didn't turn, and Silver couldn't even see his face. Without another word, he left the cabin, the door closing behind him.

"Fuck. _Fuck_." Silver pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, taking deep, shuddering breaths and trying to repress the yawning void in the pit of his stomach. It had been so much worse than he suspected, because it was clear to him now that he was not a convenience or a warm body to James Flint. And, entirely unwillingly, Silver had come to care for him in return.

Whatever they might have had was cut off at the knees now, before it even had the chance to begin. Flint couldn't remove him as quartermaster, not when the crew had voted him in the way they had, but Silver didn't see how he would ever win back the man's trust. In the place of the sickening churn of guilt in his gut, a boiling hot wave of self-loathing swept over him. The wooden cup sat beside him - it made a convenient if unsatisfying projectile when he grabbed it and launched it across the cabin. It hit the wall and fell to the deck with a clatter.

Regret tasted sour in the back of his mouth, worse than the aftertaste of the watered rum. He wanted nothing more than to go after Flint, explain everything - that he had originally done it for him, to preserve his captaincy, that he hated being the cause of that look on Flint's face, that he would do anything to wipe it away. That he wished he could do it over again, wished he had seen what was growing between them before it was too late.

The door opened, admitting Howell. Silver schooled his face, trying to wipe away some of the guilt he knew lingered in the back of his eyes. To the crew, it must appear that nothing had changed. They had elected him because of what he'd done, yes, but his familiarity with Flint had played no small part in it, he was sure.

"Awake at last," the doctor said, coming to kneel beside Silver's place on the window seat. "I was beginning to worry - you did lose quite a lot of blood, but you've been in and out for three days without waking up completely."

Silver sat motionless as the doctor pulled the blanket away, subdued and compliant with his direction, answering in monosyllables when Howell prodded at the stump and asked him where it hurt.

Finally, temper flared through the pervading heaviness over his heart. "It all fucking hurts," he snapped. "All the way up into my hip, and all the way down in my _fucking_ toes, which doesn't make any fucking sense because they aren't _there_ anymore."

The doctor only looked at him calmly, perhaps used to this reaction from his patients. "That isn't uncommon," he said. "You may feel itching, tingling, or burning. Once the wound closes, some men report that hitting the stump eases that sensation."

"Oh, yes, that sounds fucking wonderful."

"I've already changed the bandages once while you were still unconscious, but I would like to take a look at how the wound is healing," the doctor continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "You might find it disturbing."

"I'm missing a leg," Silver said, caustic and harsh. "I find that disturbing enough."

Howell gave a little half-shrug and began unwinding the bandages. Despite Silver's words, the more flesh was exposed, the more Silver's skin crawled. It was an ugly sight. Lines of coarse black stitches held pieces of his flesh together. He craned his neck to see, but thankfully he couldn't get an angle on the worst of the wound.

"We had to cauterize much of it," the doctor was saying, but his voice sounded far away through the roaring in Silver's ears. "There are too many large vessels in this area, and if we hadn't, you would have bled out. It will make for a rather horrifying scar, but you'll live. It looks well."

"It looks like shit," Silver rasped.

"Yes, but it isn't infected," Howell said, in his typical brisque manner. "I want you on bed rest for another four days at least, and then we'll see about getting you moving again. No strenuous activities until then, understand?"

There was a small glint in the doctor's eye that gave Silver a fairly good idea of what he meant by 'strenuous activities.' It sent another sharp pain through him like taking a knife in the belly. "Right," he said, still staring at the remains of his leg.

Howell seemed to sense that he wasn't taking it well, so he said no more, simply wound the bandage back around what remained of Silver's leg. "If the pain gets to be too much to bear, I have a small measure of laudanum remaining in the stores - but I would prefer if you made do with the grog."

Silver nodded wordlessly. He knew the dangers of laudanum addiction - had seen it in the men he had sailed with before he came to Nassau.

"Billy is waiting outside, I believe he has something to tell you. Would you like me to send him in?" Howell finished bandaging, tucking the end of it in neatly.

"Might as well do it while I'm still awake," Silver said.

"Keep the bandages dry, and don't sleep on that side. If you begin to notice fever or redness above the bandage, or a foul smell, send for me immediately." Howell rose, bundling up the dirtied bandage, and helped Silver swing his leg back up on the window seat. Already, Silver was beginning to chafe at the helplessness, and he had not been awake long.

"Thank you," he said, and was treated to a very surprised look from the doctor. He shrugged one shoulder. "If it was a choice between being short a leg and being dead, I'd rather be short the leg."

"I wish it hadn't been that choice," Howell said. "Never fear. The crew will take care of you."

That lodged in Silver's throat, choking his breath, and he couldn't respond as the doctor left the cabin. Seconds later, Billy slipped in, and Silver had to swallow it down. "Out of all the people I had expected to come check on me, I didn't expect you."

Wrinkles smoothed from Billy's brow. He tucked his thumbs into his belt and stood over Silver, practically looming. "We're being honest with each other, then," he said.

"I don't see why we shouldn't."

"The crew voted you quartermaster." Billy looked like he was just as uncomfortable with the prospect as he had been when he told Silver he was beginning to win votes those days ago on the deck. "You know what that means?"

"That they'll look to me the same way they did before - to tell them what's in their best interests and convince them to follow the captain's plans."

"More than that," Billy said. "Mostly the men approach me when they're having a problem, but now they'll be approaching you as well. It's your job to sort out their petty shit so the captain doesn't have to deal with it. It means the captain will be taking you with him on negotiations and relying on your judgment. I don't know what's to happen when we put into port without the Guthries in control of it, but whatever's going to shake out between Flint and Vane is going to need you to mediate."

"Fuck," Silver said, before he could help himself, his head falling back against the frame of the window with a thump. He would have to tell Flint about that, too. Perhaps he could have brought him around to forgiveness on that matter if the issue of the gold didn't already hang between them, but now it would be insult added to injury. Billy was frowning at him, and Silver gave him a wan smile, a shadow of his usual broad, cheeky grin. "Only the part about Vane. The rest of it is as I expected."

The frown didn't lift. "The quartermaster is the voice of the crew, and you'll be looking after them."

"You think I haven't been doing that already?" Silver said, gesturing to his leg. "I understand quite well that you don't like me, and that you certainly don't trust me, but it isn't as if I have anywhere else to go. They're supposed to be taking care of me," he spat it out to try and remove the foul taste from his mouth, "so I'll do the same in turn."

Billy's eyes flickered to his leg, and some of the frown softened. "Wish we could've gotten there sooner," he said. "Shouldn't have happened." His tone was apologetic, and for some reason, it served to settle some of the roiling fit surging in Silver's chest.

"You did what you could. You had the captain to worry about, too."

That made the frown soften further - perhaps Billy was remembering that it was both of them working in concert who had returned Flint safely to the ship. "When the doctor lets you start moving around the deck, there's been a crutch made for you. I figured you wouldn't want anyone carrying you around."

Silver let out his breath in a long, slow sigh. "You just might be the best man on this ship, Billy." He had meant it as a joke, but it came out of his mouth with more seriousness than he intended.

"You're one of us," Billy said. "Whether I like you or not doesn't matter. I'll always come for one of our own in danger - remember that. These men are your brothers."

Inexplicably, that settled him. He tried on another smile - this one was more genuine than the first, if only by a hair. "It's been a long time since anyone else gave a damn about me."

Billy looked to be examining him - perhaps he was searching for a lie. Silver didn't blame him. "We're all here because we have no place else to go - Flint included. His plan fell through, so he's adrift with the rest of us."

"Yes - I'd meant to ask. Where is Miranda?" Silver nodded to the cabin. "I would have expected her to be here."

"Mrs. Barlow is dead," Billy said. "I don't know how. He won't talk about it. Maybe you can get him to."

Silver felt like the deck had opened up beneath him and he was falling into the sea. Miranda had been Flint's last remaining connection to his former life. To have that ripped away, and then to have the rest of his foundation removed with Silver's betrayal - no wonder he had seemed so wearied. "Maybe," he said, but his voice was hoarse and there was no hope to it.

"He hasn't been himself since Charleston. I hope you can do something about that."

The irony was almost enough to make him laugh, but Silver locked it up tight. If he started laughing, other hysterics might follow, and breaking down in front of his strongest critic on the ship would win him no favors. "I can try."

Whatever Billy was looking for, it seemed that he had found it. "I'll leave you be - and I'll try to keep the men from bothering you until you're about."

Silver nodded his thanks, his voice lodged in his throat. Billy left him, too, and he was alone in the cabin with only his thoughts for company. Flint would have to return eventually, and when that came, Silver expected he would face the anger he had repressed when he left the cabin.

Exhaustion dragged at his bones, but sleep eluded him. Silver decided it was for the best - he preferred to be awake when Flint returned, to see if he could possibly repair some of the damage before it had the chance to fester into something that could never be repaired.

He wished for something to distract him - a book, company, anything rather than staring out the stern windows watching the ship's wake churn into froth. It looked to him like they were slowing, the wake growing smaller as he watched. If they had just passed Tortuga, they were perhaps two days out from Nassau, but if the wind wasn't with them and they were becalmed, he might look forward to several more days stuck at sea.

Finally, he rolled his head back to stare up at the deckhead, and the boredom won out over the desire to see Flint when he returned. Silver's eyelids slid shut and he slipped away once more into sleep, troubled by restless dreams.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The wind began to fail them around three bells after noon, the sails slackening and their forward progress slowing from their tidy ten knots to a mere four. Flint's bad temper, borne from the not infrequent thoughts of the man lying in his cabin, grew worse. He tried to quell it with rum, taking harsh mouthfuls from a flask every time he felt the urge to break something in half.

Billy finally edged up to him as the sun was beginning to set and mildly suggested he might wish to return to his cabin, as he was setting the men on edge. Flint narrowed his eyes at the horizon. He would almost rather throw himself overboard than look at Silver's face again. Such a drastic change from when he had fretted over his continued unconsciousness only this morning.

"Drop sea anchor," he finally said. "I'll not have us run aground in the night for lack of being able to see, and these islands are rife with reefs and sandbars."

Billy echoed his orders, and the crew snapped into action as Flint turned to his cabin, feeling like a man going to face his demons.

Silver was asleep again when he entered, shifting fitfully on the window seat, his brow wrinkled and his mouth drawn tight. For a moment it gave Flint a vindictive satisfaction to see him so disturbed, but despite the well of anger that boiled within him at Silver's betrayal, he could not stop the concern that also lingered there. He crossed the cabin to stand over his quartermaster, staring down at the man. Underneath the fury, it felt like a new, tender wound had opened in his soul. He wasn't sure how many more of these wounds he could bear before he fell apart completely, and he found himself searching for something besides malice in Silver's motives.

The way Silver had called after him when he left stood out in his mind - as well as how he had tried to deflect the blame for his lies from himself to his dead crewmate. There was remorse there, Flint was certain, but the fact remained that Silver had stolen their future from them in favor of his own. Could a man be so changed in so short a time, that he could sell the gold to other interests and then throw himself into danger to save them all?

Silver woke with a start, jolting upright, one hand clutching the blankets and the other going to the stump of his left leg. Sweat plastered his hair to his neck, and for a moment his eyes were wild and staring, still lost in the dream. Then he noticed Flint standing there and jerked back against the window frame, his elbow striking the wood and provoking a pained gasp.

Flint reached for him before he knew what he was doing, cupping the elbow with one broad hand. Silver looked at him with confusion tightening the lines around his eyes. He wasn't wary, as Flint half expected him to be, but he dropped his gaze to his lap, avoiding Flint's eyes.

"I'm fine," he said. His voice shook, and he made no move to pull away from the hold Flint had on him.

"You're not," Flint said. He knelt slowly, bringing himself on a level with Silver. The anger was still there, burning behind his ribs, but at this point there was not a day that went by when he didn't wake up with rage in his chest and go to sleep nursing that same rage as he slipped into dreams. He couldn't untangle where his anger with England and Peter ended and where his anger with Silver began - and how his anger at himself was stirred into both.

Silver huffed out a short sigh. "No, I'm not. I hoped... we could talk. Will you listen if I try to explain?"

"What is there to explain?" Flint released Silver's elbow and sat back, resting his arm on his knee, putting distance between them. He supposed it was the drink that dulled the edge of the knife Silver had slid between his ribs with that winsome smile, made him willing to exchange words with the man without killing him outright. "You betrayed me."

"I did it for you," Silver said, both defensive and earnest, and when Flint squinted at him in disbelief, those same emotions were written all over Silver's face. "If the gold had still been on that beach - if it had been an option anywhere in their minds - the crew would be Hornigold's by now and half of them would probably be dead. For you to win the captaincy back, it had to be wholly out of their reach."

"Why should I believe that?" Flint's question emerged thickly, around the knot in his throat. There was truth to Silver's words - if the gold had still been an option, not a one of his men would have gone for the Charleston plan. "You had more than enough opportunities to tell me the truth when we were alone."

Silver's eyes flickered down to his lap again, and there was a set to his jaw when he looked back up. "You lied to me, too. The day before the vote, I asked you about the gold, and you swore to me it was still a priority. But I could see even then that you knew it had become an obstacle, not a goal. And then you shrugged away its loss so easily-"

"What else was I to do?" Flint snapped. "Was I to pine over it like the men, become despondent and useless? I'm the bloody captain - I can't indulge myself in crying over losses." As soon as he said it, his mind went unwillingly to Miranda. His shoulders hunched and he rested his head on the back of his hand, curled in on himself, trying to shove it away. "Why did you stay?"

"Sorry?" Silver asked, sounding confused at the question.

"After you had sold the location of the _Urca_ , what could have possibly motivated you to return to the crew? You had what you wanted, you had given me what I wanted. So why stay?" Flint forced himself to look Silver in the eye, taking in way the lines around his mouth softened.

"I thought it was obvious," Silver said. He tried for a smile - it fell far short of his usual grin, and it was gone as quickly as it came.

Flint scoffed, a sour taste rising to the back of his tongue. "Don't pretend you have any regard for me."

"I'm not pretending," Silver said, and now he was more defensive than earnest. "Why the fuck do you think I pulled you out of the sea? I could have left you to drown just as easily."

"You said yourself - because I was the only man who could get you what you wanted." Flint's fingers curled into his knee, gripping tight to keep himself anchored. This - the thought that Silver _wanted_ him, and had before they started this mess that lay between them - it was too much. Too much to believe, and too much to consider on top of everything else.

"You really have no notion of your affect on people, do you?" Silver asked - and the true bafflement there did more to convince Flint that he wasn't lying than any of his words. "You're arresting. Dangerous, yes - vicious, oh yes - but there is far more to you than that. I can see it in your eyes when you look out to the sea, hear it in the way you speak, feel it in your hands on me when we fuck. I admit it took me some time to come to terms with that, as used to relying on myself and only myself as I am, but you managed to - to convince me I mattered. Given the choice between striking out on my own, without a soul in the world to care whether I lived or died the next day, and staying at your side? I'll choose the latter."

Flint could see no lie in his eyes. Melancholy, yes - something that read to him as guilt, given Silver's words - but no lie. "Why not tell me the truth, then?"

Silver looked down. "I suppose I thought myself more clever than I actually am." That admission surprised Flint - Silver had always touted his cleverness and his quick wit as his one strength in this world. "I thought I could keep it secret until I took my share and left. I thought I wouldn't have to see the look on your face when you found out." He paused. "Why did you lie?"

"If I had told you Charleston was more important to me than the gold in that moment, would you have stayed?" The question left Flint's lips before he could stop it, but he couldn't draw the words back now.

"No." 

Flint nodded. "I thought as much. I didn't - I needed you."

"You didn't want me to go," Silver said, finishing his unspoken sentence, looking up once more. Flint said nothing, but his expression must have been confirmation enough. "Selling the location of the gold was a selfish move. I regretted it since."

"There was a time in our acquaintance that I would never have believed you to do anything unselfish." Flint reached out very slowly, so that Silver could stop him if he wanted, and rested his hand on Silver's left thigh.

Silver's eyes skittered away from the flat emptiness of the blanket below his knee, coming to rest on Flint again. "I couldn't leave you there to die."

Flint's hand moved, still atop the blanket, until he was cradling Silver's hip instead. "I wish I could have killed the man who did this." It came out in a low, vicious growl. "I would have gutted him and let him bleed out slowly while I hauled him under the keel."

Despite Silver's frequent claims that he had no stomach for violence, he bared his teeth in an equally vicious smile. "I wish that, too. Billy's sword through his chest was too quick." His eyes traveled over Flint's face, and his hand came to rest atop Flint's on his hip. "What now?"

"Regardless of whatever is between us, we have a ship to run. You... were right about the gold. If it had still been in the crew's mind during the election, I have no doubt it would have spelled my loss." He took a deep breath. "I believe we could function together in a professional capacity."

The tiny spark of hope that had crept into Silver's face went out abruptly. "Is that what you want?"

Flint swallowed, feeling like there was a war going on within his breast. He wanted to stay angry at Silver, wanted to hold him at arm's length until he was sure they could trust one another again - and at the same time, he didn't want that at all. An aching loneliness filled his heart at the thought of standing beside Silver, unable to touch, the both of them holding themselves in reserve.

"Fuck no," he rasped. "I want you."

"Oh thank God," Silver said, reaching for him.

Flint rolled up onto his knees and braced himself on the window, pressing his mouth to Silver's. The kiss was savage, like an attack of teeth, and Silver gave as good as he got, sucking Flint's lip into his mouth and biting down. It sent a current of heat through his blood, banishing the numbness he had been wrapped in since Charleston.

They broke apart gasping. Silver's lips were wet, his eyes hooded and dark. "I'm afraid I can't do much," he said, frustration at his own helplessness coloring his words.

"You can take what I give you," Flint said, an echo of his words on the gun deck.

Silver shivered at it, and when Flint shoved his hands beneath his shirt, yanking it untucked, Silver's nimble fingers were there, undoing his belt and tossing it aside. Flint moved his hand from the window to Silver's other hip, lifting him and helping him turn until he was kneeling between Silver's thighs.

He shoved Silver's shirt up and applied his tongue to the skin there, nipping at the edges of his muscles. He paused above the edge of Silver's trousers and sucked a mark - Silver moaned, loud and shameless, hooking his good leg over Flint's shoulder and grinding up against him.

Flint yanked open Silver's trousers and swallowed him down greedily, breathing in the scent of sweat and musk. Silver shoved his fingers into Flint's hair, knocking the tie askew. He didn't pull, but his fingers trembled like it was a near thing. Flint groaned around the length in his mouth and Silver shouted a surprised curse, bucking up. Flint tightened his fingers on Silver's hips, holding him down.

It provoked an abrupt hiss of pain, and Flint looked up to find Silver trying to hide a flinch. He pulled back, Silver's cock sliding from his mouth, confused by the reaction.

"Don't-" Silver said, but Flint was already tugging his trousers down further. On either side of Silver's hips were dark, finger-shaped bruises. They were old enough to color a livid blue-green, but not quite so old as the fading marks Flint had left with the cane.

"What the fuck is this," Flint said flatly, all thoughts of sex driven from his mind.

"He was going to kill me and leave you for dead." Silver was perhaps more frantic now than he had been when he explained about the treasure.

"Vane," Flint snarled, surging to his feet, leaving Silver with his trousers open and his shirt rucked up.

"It was the only way I could see surviving the night," Silver said. "After I cut the forestay, he was the one who found me below. He had a knife to my throat and he would have sailed for Nassau as soon as the forestay was repaired. I thought - I offered-"

"You offered to fuck him so he would come after me, is that it?" The rage that had died down surged back with a vengeance.

"I didn't have another choice!" Silver protested. "For God's sake, you know what he's like! I had to make myself valuable - or at least _interesting_. I... I knew what it would mean. For us. I knew you would-" he gestured at the space between them, his hand fluttering in defeat. "Despite that, I hoped you would understand."

Flint couldn't speak for a long moment, his jaw working, fists clenched. Silver yanked up his trousers and pulled his shirt back down, struggling for a moment before he managed to turn and rest his bad leg on the window seat once more. He wouldn't look up, and his shoulders were hunched - despite Silver's words, then, he was ashamed.

"I'm going to kill him," Flint decided, and turned on his heel.

"James!" Silver called after him, but he knew if he didn't leave the cabin now, he would direct his anger at the wrong man. "Captain - god dammit!" 

There was a sound like Silver had punched the wood of the window seat, and a string of colorful curses followed, but Flint didn't stop. It was like the stays he had put on his fury had finally broken, and the fire of it was almost cleansing as it rolled through him.

He might not be able to kill the man who had tortured his quartermaster, but he could certainly exact vengeance on the one who had made him so afraid for his life he would take a rough fuck at knifepoint. Charles Vane and his men had more than worn out their welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

"Son of a _fucking_ bitch," Silver said, raking his hand through his hair. His cock ached, although that was subsiding in favor of his very real fear over what Flint would do now that his anger had been given a legitimate target. "Billy!" he shouted, putting as much force behind his voice as he could. He doubted his voice would carry any further than the door. "For fuck's sake, fuck the Spanish and their god damn ships - _Billy!_ " The door to the cabin opened. It wasn't Billy who stuck his head in the door, and Silver yanked a cushion from his makeshift bed and threw it at the man's head. "Is your fucking name Billy?"

"I'll get him," the man said, backing out of the cabin and shutting the door quickly, presumably before Silver could lay his hands on a projectile that would fly with more force.

Billy looked to be in just as bad a temper as Silver when he strode into the cabin, the door opening with a bang. "What the fuck did you say to him?"

"Tell me he's not on his way down below to pick a fight," Silver clutched at the stump of his leg, feeling acutely confined.

"Looked that way," Billy said, arms crossed over his chest.

"Just what I fucking needed." Silver's shoulders tightened with the urge to punch something, but his hand still ached from hitting the window seat. Flint was going to get himself killed - or kill Vane, which given how angry he was seemed equally likely, but that would cause a disaster between the crews of quite devastating proportions.

"Someone's got to go after him. Guess it'll have to be me." Billy turned to leave the cabin, and the only thing that could go through Silver's mind was the bosun walking in on Flint and Vane arguing about _his_ private affairs.

"No-" Silver flailed a hand after Billy and slid out of his perch on the window seat, landing with an ungainly thud on the deck. " _Fuck_ this _fucking_ leg. You said I had a crutch?"

Billy's eyes rolled up to the deckhead - beseeching a higher power for patience - and he crossed the cabin to grab Silver by the elbows and lift him back into the window seat. The effortlessness of the gesture gave Silver pause for a moment. He could hardly avoid knowing that Billy was strong, since the man had biceps the size of Silver's _head_ , but it was one thing to have a purely intellectual knowledge and another to be easily picked up and put down like an unruly child.

"Howell said you weren't to be up yet," Billy said. "Stay here, I'll get the captain."

"God _damn_ you Billy, get me the fucking crutch or I swear to God I will crawl out of here on my fucking elbows." Silver glared for emphasis, fingers curled around the top of his left thigh.

Billy hesitated for a moment, and just when Silver started looking around for something else to throw, he shrugged. "You want to break open your wound and have to get stitched again, it's your leg."

Silver was beginning to despise being left alone in the cabin, so it was a good thing it didn't take Billy very long to fetch the piece of spar the crew had crudely fashioned into a crutch. "Thank you," Silver said, yanking it from Billy's grip and shoving it under his armpit. He was shaky when he rose, his good leg weak with disuse. He shuffled the crutch forward with his weight on his good leg and hopped.

Billy stood behind him - Silver knew very well the other man was hovering, but at least he was being unobtrusive about it. "All right, which way did he go."

"Vane's men are bunking below the cabin, Vane's in the officer's quarters one deck down." Billy reached out and grabbed his elbow when the crutch hit an uneven spot on the deck, but as soon as Silver steadied himself, Billy's firm grip was gone like it had never been there, and he resumed speaking like nothing had happened. "So it depends on who he was going after."

"He's after Vane," Silver said. "Stairs. That should be an interesting challenge."

The sun had set, so there weren't many men on deck to see his half-hopping, half-shuffling progress, Billy following close behind him. "Listen, I know Vane and Flint would sooner kill each other than look at each other, but when they came on board from Charleston, seemed like that might've been put to rest for now."

"It's a bit complicated," Silver said. Shifting his weight from the crutch to his good leg was more effort than he thought it was going to be, and he puffed for breath before long.

"It's Flint, everything is complicated." Billy had to steady him with an arm on his elbow as they mounted the stairs down. Silver swallowed his pride and took the help only because he was in a hurry.

"-my _fucking_ ship! Tell him to get the fuck out here!"

"Well, the captain's in about as good a mood as I could have hoped." Silver grinned, a bit of his old, sarcastic cheer creeping into his voice. Billy only gave him a sideways look that conveyed quite effectively without words how wearied the bosun was with his captain and his quartermaster alike.

Silver finally came to a thumping, limping halt at the bottom of the stairs to find that several of Vane's crew had apparently been lounging about on the stair down to the hold, and two of the wilder looking types were currently blocking Flint's way to the officer's quarters. The captain had his hand on the hilt of his sword, though thankfully he hadn't drawn it yet, and - yes, he was getting that flush across his forehead that happened when he was truly furious.

"Captain," he said, halting to lean on the side of a beam. He was more out of breath than he could have wanted, and probably sweaty to boot.

Flint glanced behind, and Silver was treated to the rare sight of genuine surprise on his face. It was subtle - the muscles of his cheeks slackened, his eyebrows lifted, and though he struggled to keep it hidden, Silver saw Flint's eyes flick over him, assessing.

"What the hell are you doing down here?" Flint's voice had that low quality it got when he was about to be very dangerous. "Billy, take him back upstairs."

"Billy, I will use this as a bludgeoning weapon, I promise you," Silver said, shifting his grip on his crutch and poking it threateningly in front of him.

Billy lifted both hands and stepped to the side - ostensibly to distance himself from Silver, but he had placed himself between Vane's men and his captain. "I'm not getting between the two of you if you're going to have it out."

"The fuck is this, a lover's quarrel?" The door to the officer's quarters swung shut behind Vane, who slowly crossed the short hall to stand behind his two men, tan skin shifting over his muscles in a way that made Silver swallow. It reminded him of how fast Vane could move when it suited him.

Flint was just as fast - he went for Vane with his teeth bared. The other man jerked back, avoiding the fist aimed at his jaw and taking the blow on his shoulder. Vane's eyes glittered, and his mouth lost all evidence of the mocking smirk, narrowing on Flint.

Billy shouldered his way between the two of them. One of Vane's men went for him - Billy grabbed the ragged collar of his shirt and threw him into the next man, his muscles bunching with the effort. The two staggered into one another.

Silver thudded his head against the beam in frustration and resigned himself to hobbling forward. He caught Flint's shoulder with his free hand and used the crutch to pivot, putting his back to Billy's, the two of them standing between Flint and Vane, respectively.

"Captain," he said, shooting for a reasonable tone. Flint fixed him with a long stare, his mouth pressed together tight and the anger flush still high in his face. "Think about the situation. We are sitting right atop a powder keg, and any wrong move could set it alight."

"I am not going to let that man toy with my crew with impunity." Flint glared over Silver's shoulder at Vane, who was no doubt smirking or sneering or otherwise doing something completely unhelpful for defusing the situation.

Still. Flint's eyes went to him for a scant couple of seconds, some of the ferocity quelled until Silver could clearly see the protectiveness that was behind it. He was momentarily silenced by the solicitous hand that now rested on the elbow Silver pinned tight to the crutch, steadying him.

Only momentarily. "Listen. I don't doubt you're angry - probably no little bit of it with me-"

Flint's hand on his elbow squeezed like he was protesting, and something flickered in his expression - a brief wrinkling of his brow, a tightening around his mouth. Behind Silver, Billy was saying something about the captain's short temper on account of being becalmed since three bells. Silver tuned him out, far more interested in Flint's wordless insistence that Silver wasn't the target of his ire.

"All right then, angry with Vane. I admit to having some resentment involved myself, but let me be clear - I make my own choices." Silver leaned closer, trusting to Flint's grip on his arm to keep him upright. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me."

"What if I just want to kill him?" Flint was equally quiet, but no less menacing.

"By all means, when we aren't trapped with his crew on a ship that isn't going anywhere until we get a good wind, have at him. I'll give you my blessing. But now?" Silver raised his eyebrows and tilted his head at Vane's two guards, who had by now picked themselves up, and then the men crouched restlessly on the stairs. The lot of them looked like a pack of wolves ready to leap when ordered.

Flint's grip shifted from Silver's elbow to his shoulder, easily pushing him aside - Silver could offer no resistance, as ungainly as he was on the crutch. Flint stared Vane down, the two of them looking for all the world like a pair of great cats about to have a furious dispute over territory. Billy was a solid wall of bulk between the two of them, but if the captains truly wanted at each other, Silver didn't think he would be capable of holding them both off.

Vane's gaze went to Silver, sweeping down his body and resting on the missing leg for a moment before darting back to Flint. "Gave orders your crew weren't to be harmed," he said shortly, in a grudging growl. "If your man here hadn't taken care of that traitor I'd gut him myself."

There was a bit of shifting uneasiness in Vane's men at that. A quartermaster was, inescapably, the most well-liked man on the crew more often than not. That Vane was not only condoning his death but expressing a wish to have done it himself looked as if it might be dividing his men.

Silver swallowed down his nervousness. "When the cat's away and all," he said, forcing a light easiness into his tone. Suppressing his own considerable anger at his mutilation was easier said than done - it _sounded_ forced. "Still. Your late quartermaster's actions have served to stir up the hornet's nest, as it were. It might be best for everyone if we all just... stayed away from each other."

"If we're becalmed longer than a day, the men will get restless," Vane said. "We were minding our own business until your captain came down here to pick a fight. Wonder what could've upset him so much." The indecent smirk on Vane's lips told Silver all he needed to know about Vane's capacity for subtlety. 

Silver threw out his good arm, catching Flint in the chest as he started forward, his fingers digging into the man's muscles in warning. "Stay the fuck away from my crew," Flint snarled - and it didn't take a genius to figure out that he meant Silver in specific, the way he was straining against Silver's grasp like he would go for Vane's throat in an instant given the chance.

With a small sigh, Silver skidded his crutch on the wood of the deck, nearly going down. Flint had to catch him or let him fall, and the captain grabbed for him, catching him under the arms and setting him back on his feet. "Get off," Silver snapped, making a show of wresting himself from Flint's grasp.

Flint kept one hand under the elbow of his right arm, supporting him until he managed to plant the crutch solidly once more. "Billy," the captain said.

Billy backed up from where he still stood toe-to-toe with Vane - slow, reluctant steps that opened distance between them while allowing the bosun to keep watch on Vane's every movement. "Captain," he said. "Believe we might want to get our quartermaster back to where he's supposed to be."

"Fuck you, I'm not an invalid," Silver said hotly. Despite his protests, his right leg did feel like it was going to give out from beneath him at any moment - perhaps Howell had been right to say he didn't want Silver up for another week. Still, Silver hadn't been about to let someone else come down here and get an earful of whatever would come out of a true argument between the two captains.

"Shame about the leg," Vane said, apparently not able to resist lobbing one last parting shot. "Nice to see it hasn't done anything to all that fire. He's not as fragile as that pretty face makes him look."

"For fuck's sake," Silver hissed, teeth clenched, as Flint went for the other captain again. He fetched up against Billy's implacable grip this time, the bosun holding him at bay with one arm wrapped around the captain's chest. "Captain! Powder keg!"

It took a visible effort for Flint to contain himself, but he stopped straining against Billy's grip and subsided, jaw working as he stared Vane down. "Keep to this end of my ship," he snapped, and turned away, mounting the stairs as if nothing had happened to shake his composure. "Billy!"

Billy was at Silver's elbow without further prompting, and though Silver glared murder at him, he had to admit that going up the stairs was considerably more difficult than going down.

"Mr. Silver," Vane said, as Silver was about to clear the stairs to the deck above. He stopped and turned, fixing Vane with what he hoped was an unreadable expression. "Congratulations on making quartermaster. I imagine you're the first one in some time who's gotten to the position from on his knees." The men lounging around the stair burst into an uproar of laughter.

Billy's grip on his elbow tightened, but Silver didn't need the warning - he was no fool. He knew Vane only said it to get under his skin, but Silver only answered him with his customary cheeky grin. "I didn't hear you voicing any complaints," he said. The thrill of apprehension that rolled down his spine as he continued his progress had nothing to do with the increased whoops from Vane's pack of animals and everything to do with the look Billy gave him out of the corner of his eye.

"Here I thought you'd said something clever in the hold to get him to go after the captain," Billy said.

"I did. Just because what followed was a bit more physical than conversation doesn't preclude my being clever." Silver got his crutch firmly beneath him when he reached the top of the stair and looked around for Flint - he spotted the man lingering in front of the door to his cabin. As soon as their eyes met, Flint turned and vanished inside, the door shutting after him.

"Also thought you said it was complicated." Billy let go of his arm as soon as he was steady, stepping back to follow behind him as he thumped his way across the deck. "Jealous lover's about as uncomplicated as you can get."

Silver couldn't help the way his head whipped around to fix Billy with a hard stare. "That's not gossip for the men," he said.

"If you think they've not got you in bed together already, you're not half as clever as you think you are," Billy said. "The crew's got a betting pool open as to whether you'll kill each other or enter matelotage before the year is out. It's not a secret, and nobody gives a fuck. Fact is, having the two of you on the same side is going to do wonders for the way the ship functions."

Silver couldn't help himself - his mouth still ran away from him at times. "Is the smart money on murder or matrimony?"

"I've got my bets on matelotage," Billy said. "Figure if the captain wanted to kill you, he'd have done it already."

"Jesus Christ." Silver looked out over the deck - it was dark, and more of the men seemed to be retiring below by the minute, but he occasionally caught a look thrown his way. There was concern in most of them, the kind Silver never thought he would see from anyone on this crew. It reminded him of the concern on Flint's face earlier today, which reminded him that he had only just awoken, which in turn had his body screaming its displeasure at his impromptu jaunt. "I think the two of you might be right about my lying down."

Billy didn't say anything, just followed him like a helpful shadow as he progressed slowly across the deck until he practically fell through the doorway of the cabin, holding himself up by the door handle and his crutch. Sweat had soaked through the front of his shirt, and his left leg had set up an absolutely hideous throbbing.

Flint half-rose from his desk when Silver came in, but a fierce glare kept him in place as Silver hobbled across the cabin to his window seat. He sank down with a long, grateful sigh, eyes slipping closed from exhaustion, only to snap back open when he felt someone pulling at the crutch.

"I'll take this," Billy said, and Silver was too weak to resist having it wrenched from his hands. "Don't be a fucking idiot and listen to the doctor. You can have it back in a week."

"That all depends on whether our captain can keep his desire to strangle our unwanted guests under control." Silver swung his leg up into the window seat, his muscles aching, and rested his head against the cool glass of the window. Billy shook his head and left them alone, closing the cabin door with a soft click.

"Strangling is over too quick." Flint had a mirthless, toothsome grin on his face when Silver rolled his head to the other side to look at him. It made him look like a demon.

"I'm sure you can think of at least a dozen tedious ways to kill someone painfully," Silver said, "but I can't be running after you whenever you get it into your head that you've got to defend my honor. There's no point, you know - I haven't got much of it, and I don't particularly care to defend it."

Flint frowned down at his desk, then shoved back from it, crossing the deck to stand over Silver again - less looming, but no less brooding than before. "Vane isn't going to let what happened between you stay a secret. Give it two days back at Nassau and the whole island will be calling you my cabin boy, not my quartermaster."

"Let them," Silver said. "I'd like to see them try to say it to your face."

"That's not the point. If word gets out about us-"

"We haven't even talked about what constitutes 'us.'" Silver licked his lips. "Besides, according to Billy, most of the crew expects us to tie the knot soon, and they're not well known for keeping their mouths shut."

Flint's face slackened in surprise again. "You can't be serious."

Part of Silver agreed with him - they had only just come to a place where all the lies were stripped away, and right now the only thing that truly lay between them was a considerable physical attraction and an as-yet undiscussed and still-complicated tangle of emotion. 

Nevertheless, another part of him couldn't help but picture what it might be like. They were already beginning to settle together into an unexpectedly good fit - the near-mess in the hold with Vane had given Silver an idea of what it might be like, playing quartermaster to Flint's captain, reining in the man's impulsive rage and using his quick wit to negotiate. Despite his general distaste for sailing and piracy both, the prospect of having not just a bedmate but an actual partner was tempting. He had spent most of his life alone, relying only on himself. It still felt strange to know there were other people who cared whether he lived or died - more than that, who cared whether he suffered.

Flint's brows drew together. "Do you want...?"

"It's a bit early to be talking that kind of thing." Silver shoved the daydreaming aside. Wherever their relationship went from here, and he had no doubt there was going to be a relationship of some kind, he would take it as it came. Matelotage was a strange concept to consider, in any case. Silver had never thought of himself as the marrying type, even if he did like women just as well as men, and he was certain that given Flint's preferences, it wasn't a thought that had ever crossed _his_ mind. "But perhaps it is time for us to have an overdue conversation about that 'us' you keep mentioning."

Flint gestured toward the other end of the window seat, a question in his eyes. Silver drew up his good leg until the captain had space to sit - and was startled when Flint curled his hand around his remaining calf and straightened Silver's leg until it was lying across his lap. The casual contact explained more than words might be able to about Flint's hopes for what they might have.

"There's a good deal you don't know about who I used to be," Flint said. "And I know even less about you."

Silver shrugged. "There isn't much to know. I was a young man of very few options, and sailing sounded considerably more attractive than seminary."

"You told me once you didn't care for the sea." Flint's palm was warm, moving from Silver's calf up to his thigh.

"I don't care for hard work, and sailing is that. I care even less for celibacy, though, so." He shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Perhaps I should have chosen the Church. I don't imagine there's much risk of priests losing their legs."

Flint let the joke fall into the silence between them, and Silver's cheeky grin subsided. "For a very long time, I have held myself apart," Flint said. Silver remained quiet, though the captain paused for a decent stretch of time, sensing that all of this was difficult for Flint to dredge to the surface. "After - I didn't think I would ever come to think of another person the way I had-" he struggled for the words, but finally shook his head as if they were too painful to utter. "I could hardly fail to notice how pleasing you are to the eye, but I told myself it was of no consequence."

"Always with the pretty face," Silver said. "I believe I could bring myself to be offended. I have other qualities."

"I know," Flint said, and there was that ridiculous fond smile again. Now that Silver wasn't weighed down by his own guilt, he could appreciate it more - the way it gave a spark of true life to Flint's blue eyes, the way the lines around his mouth crinkled at the corners, the way his beard framed his lips. "Those other qualities are what drew me to you, far more than the pretty face. It was the way you ran intellectual circles around most of the crew, the seemingly boundless optimism that you would find yourself ahead, your capacity for always talking your way out of trouble."

Silver looked down at the empty left leg of his trousers. "Almost," he said, not intending it to come out as soft and wounded as it did.

Flint's hand tightened on his thigh, and the smile left his face. His eyes flicked away from Silver. "If I had been here, this wouldn't have happened." The words seemed to stick in Flint's throat. A realization dawned over Silver - that the captain blamed himself for what had happened. "If I had listened to you and gone after the gold, Miranda wouldn't-"

That sentence stopped like it was sheared off with a knife, and Silver remembered Billy's words - _He won't talk about it. Maybe you can get him to._ "James," he said, reaching out to rest his hand on Flint's. "What happened to her?"

A shudder passed through Flint, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "No," he rasped, and his shoulders drooped like a heavy weight had settled over them. "I can't."

"It might help." Silver brushed his thumb over Flint's knuckles, trying for a soothing gesture. "To talk about it. About her. Maybe even about other things I'm sure you haven't spoken to a soul about."

"I can't," Flint repeated, and he gently extracted his hand from Silver's to get to his feet. "You should sleep. It couldn't have been good for you to be up so soon after waking."

Silver hated to agree with him, but his muscles felt like water and already his eyes were heavy. "If there's going to be an 'us,' you should know that I will always listen," he said, and then yawned, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth.

Flint leaned down and caught his hand, drawing it aside. They kissed - softer than the desperation from before. It felt like gratitude. It was comfortable. Flint drew away only enough to speak. "Go to sleep, John."

"As long as you know," Silver said, and couldn't resist leaning forward to press their lips together again before his strength failed him and he had to collapse into the window seat. He shifted until he was comfortable, letting his eyes close but for the barest slit, watching Flint through his lashes.

The smile had returned again, but there was a shade to it Silver misliked - something like grief, or regret, or even guilt. He would have to remember to tell the captain in the morning that the actions of a savage and his equally uncivilized crew weren't anything Flint could have possibly predicted or defended against. He hoped it would be enough to lift the shadows from his face.

It was all so bloody complicated, Silver decided, finally letting his eyes close all the way. At the same time, it seemed like it could be the simplest thing - the two of them against the whole of the world. Silver had only recently realized it was something he wanted, and now that it was a real possibility, he found that he was willing to fight tooth and nail to get it.

\-----------

The lack of wind lasted through the night and well into the morning. The crew took the opportunity to catch up on what personal matters they left themselves - mending clothing, darning socks, sharpening and cleaning weapons. One of the men had a fiddle, which he tried to bring out on deck until it became evident he had no skill with the instrument and was chased back below by the heckling shouts from his crewmates.

Silver, by all reports, remained a terrible patient. Flint tried not to be too obvious about eavesdropping on Howell's conversation with Billy after the doctor emerged from the cabin that morning. It seemed that despite exhausting himself, Silver hadn't set his recovery back with his jaunt down to the lower decks the evening before. Still, his quartermaster had some choice words for people who kept his crutch from him when he was _clearly_ capable of being up and about - choice words that he offered the doctor at the top of his lungs, which carried across the weather deck and had most of the crew grinning.

"Cursing and throwing things already," Billy had said from his safe spot in the doorway. "You've barely had the job two days and you're already a proper quartermaster."

Silver responded to _that_ with more colorful words, some of which weren't even in English.

Flint stayed away from the cabin while the doctor was there. Despite the - as Silver eloquently called it - 'us' that was slowly settling into place between them, he knew Silver hated being vulnerable in front of anyone. He tolerated Billy only because the bosun made no comment on his condition save to call him a fool for disregarding Howell, and he tolerated Howell only because he needed to. Flint's presence would be too much. It wasn't something they had talked about, but there was wordless gratitude written all over Silver's face when the doctor came to the cabin and Flint left without comment.

He had a feeling that would set the trend for most of their partnership - unspoken concessions to each other's pride, a very compatible physical relationship, and a resolute avoidance of their past demons.

The latter might be difficult to maintain if Silver had his way. Flint recalled the words he had spoken the night before, the offer to listen while Flint unburdened himself. It was something Flint had no desire to relive, but that point seemed to be moot - Miranda and Thomas haunted his dreams. Perhaps if he could dismiss all the dreams as nightmares and bad memories it might have been easier, but more often than not it was the happier moments he found his sleeping self revisiting. 

It was the long, lazy mornings spent with Thomas in bed, until Miranda coaxed them both out of it with breakfast on a tray, a fond smile on her lips. It was the evenings spent in the drawing room before the fire, Miranda's warm voice reading Locke's _An Essay Concerning Human Understanding_ , Thomas's back resting against her knees and James lying curled on his side with his head in Thomas's lap, his eyes closing at the feeling of fingers running through his hair.

Yes, it would have been easier if he could dream only of the horror, for that was a burden he expected. To be pulled back to the time when he had been so happy, only to wake with the knowledge that it had all been ripped away from him, tore the wounds in his soul wider with each waking.

As the noon bell passed and the wind showed no signs of picking up, the men started to get restless. Flint had Billy organize crews to go over the rigging, the sails, the boards of the deck - their refit in Tortuga notwithstanding, it was never a bad idea to double check a ship's seaworthiness. He sent Billy with the group of men to check the stores, trusting to the bosun to keep everyone's heads cool.

The idea backfired when Billy trudged back up to the weather deck an hour later, a wearied expression on his face. Flint turned from the stern railing as he approached. "What is it now?"

"Vane and his men are getting restless down below," Billy said. "They want to come up on deck, at least for a few bells."

Flint's first instinct was to tell Billy to go tell Vane where he could shove his wants, but he couldn't help but remember how Silver had come clattering down the stairs below deck, shaking and sweaty and still determined to keep the tenuous peace between the crews. "If they use the stern stairs, and then stay above the forecastle, they can come up in groups of five men at a time."

"Aye, captain. I'll go tell them."

"Billy," Flint said, catching him by the arm. "I want them to keep the hell away from the captain's cabin."

"Would have made sure of that anyway," Billy said. "No reason for them to be going near there."

Flint nodded sharply and released him, watching him vanish down the stairs below. He went back to the railing, resolutely ignoring the muttering that rose from the crew as the first group of Vane's men emerged onto the weather deck.

Of course Silver would choose that moment to bang the door to the cabin open and shout, "Howell! Howell, you bloody torturer, if I promise to stay in the damn cabin can I have it?"

A quiet sigh left Flint, and he descended the stairs from the quarter deck to find Silver clinging to the door handle and glaring at anyone within line of sight. "You should be resting."

"If I don't have something to do, I'm going to go out of my mind," Silver said. "Aren't there any books on board?"

"Do you speak Spanish?" Flint asked, and he was so abruptly reminded of when Miranda suggested he learn the same language, in London all those years ago, that his chest squeezed tight.

"I only know enough to be rude." Silver hopped back to let him pass, and after a moment of bristling, also allowed Flint to slide an arm around his chest, Silver's hand clutching at his shoulder as Flint supported him back to his window seat. When Flint lowered him to sit again, he got a good look at Silver's face - he was staring at his missing leg with a furious loathing that made Flint swallow.

"I might have something." Flint's steps were slow as he approached the shelves. He knew very well there was only one book in English currently aboard - Miranda had more, and abruptly Flint had to stop and rest his hand on the surface of the desk, remembering that he would have to go to her modest home in the interior of the island and pack away all her belongings, as there was no-one else left on this earth who would.

"James?" Silver asked quietly, and Flint wondered when they had become so comfortable with one another that he no longer hesitated to use Flint's given name.

"It's nothing," he said, forcing him to continue until he came to the bookshelf, where the beloved copy of Marcus Aurelius' _Meditations_ was tucked between thick Spanish books. He drew it out, letting the pads of his fingers smooth over the leather of the spine, the cover, the pages. His steps were slow and measured as he crossed back to Silver, and he hesitated for a long moment before handed the book over.

Silver took it with gentle fingers, perhaps sensing that this was something personal. He opened the cover and Flint's breath caught when he saw the note in Thomas's neat, flowing hand.

"'Know no shame,'" Silver murmured, his fingers passing above the words without touching them. "'T.H.' I imagine that would be Thomas?"

Flint struggled against his desire to bury Thomas and Miranda in his memory forever - but that would only leave him with angry ghosts. Instead, he went to shut the door to the cabin before Silver obligingly moved his remaining leg to let Flint sit on the window seat as he had the night before. "Thomas Hamilton was a remarkable man. He had a way of inspiring hope and optimism in people that I had never seen before - and that I haven't seen quite the same way since. He was generous of spirit and kind of heart, and he deserved no part of what happened to him because of me."

"Miranda didn't tell me what happened to him," Silver said. "Only that he was her husband."

"He was, and they were very happy, for all they never shared their marriage bed. I don't believe Miranda had much interest in matters of the heart - she was comfortable at Thomas's side, supporting him and his political goals." Flint took a long deep breath, suddenly thrown into a vivid memory of London cobblestones, of meeting a young man in a powdered wig who had enough fire in his eyes to set the whole of England ablaze. "When I came into their lives, I was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy. My career did not look to be promising, me being common-born and not educated as many of my fellows were, but Thomas had a vision for the problem of piracy in the West Indies that was... compelling. Frightening to the establishment. Then there was the affair."

"Miranda didn't object to you sleeping with her husband?" Silver shut the cover of the book, his fingertips tracing the tooling on the leather cover.

Flint couldn't help the short bark of laughter that escaped him. "Miranda suggested it, after the first couple encounters between she and I left the both of us somewhat unsatisfied. I resisted, of course, and made her swear never to speak of it. A part of me thought it was some elaborate trick, a cruel joke at my expense."

Silver stretched out his leg, resting his foot in Flint's lap and nudging him with his bare toes. Flint looked up to find a twist to Silver's mouth. "I'm not unfamiliar with that kind of cruelty," he said, and Flint recognized the way his expression grew distant, lost in memory.

"It wasn't, though." Flint couldn't keep the wistful note from creeping into his words. "It wasn't. What Thomas and I had was all-consuming. Incredible. The three of us were content, in our own way. Perhaps if I had resisted him more on the question of New Providence, brought him around to a compromise - perhaps..." Flint trailed off. If he had listened to Miranda and stayed away from the Admiralty - but no, by that time they had already been betrayed. The thought made it feel like a weight was lifted from his shoulders. No matter what he had done, or not done, it would not have changed the outcome.

"They found you out." Silver's voice was soft, but his face was hard, an angry glint in his eyes that Flint knew all too well.

"The Admiralty," Flint said with a short nod, staring unseeing at the cabin wall. "We were betrayed. We didn't know until Charleston. We knew that Thomas's father brought the charges, but not that Peter Ashe corroborated them. He was close enough to the Hamiltons and I that his testimony had credibility. Lord Hamilton had Thomas removed to a sanitarium. Miranda and I fled - Peter helped us. It's why we trusted him so after all these years." He fell silent for a long moment, his hands clenched together in his lap, knuckles white. "I never saw Thomas again. I didn't even see him before they took him away. Years later, when Miranda discovered that his father was traveling in secret on the _Maria Aleyne_ , she sent me after him. And I killed him."

Silver was quiet for a long moment, and Flint didn't move to look at him. The seconds seemed to stretch out to miniature eternities. Finally, Silver shifted on the window seat, turning so he could press himself against Flint's side, the book still cradled in his lap. "You discovered Lord Ashe's betrayal in Charleston," he said, a gentle prod.

Flint felt like he was draining rot from a festering wound, but Silver's body against him was like a balm, a comfort as he ripped the cover off his past. "There was a clock. It had stood in the Hamilton home in London. It was there in Charleston, in Peter's house. Miranda hadn't given it to him. Thomas died in the sanitarium - legally, all his property was his father's. It was Miranda who noticed it, and who drew the truth from him."

"How did she die?"

The shot had come in front and to the left. Flint had not seen Peter's man move, so fixed was he on Miranda's rage. Hot, coppery blood sprayed across his face, and Miranda-

"They shot her," Flint croaked, and there was the hot flare of rage that he had tamped down, the one he thought he had slaked with Peter's death. "She did nothing more than raise her voice, and Peter's man shot her in the head."

Silver's body stiffened at his side. Flint finally brought himself to look, and saw that the anger in his face had only mounted, tightening his mouth into a thin line. "What happened to them?"

"I killed Peter myself. The rest of his men fell to the cannons - along with the town." Flint held himself very still, awaiting Silver's response. Billy had looked at him sidelong when he ordered them to fire on the remainder of the town - though the bosun hadn't said anything out loud, he knew there was disapproval there for the level of destruction Flint had wrought. Silver didn't strike him as a bloodthirsty sort of man, but there had been that viciousness in his smile, when Flint described what he would have done to Vane's quartermaster.

"Good," Silver finally said, low and furious and so like what Flint felt boiling inside him that he sagged against the warm line of him, his face going to the crook of Silver's neck, lips resting on his collarbone. Unbidden, a tiny thought skittered through the back of his mind, that Thomas would have abhorred this kind of violence - would not have recognized the two vicious creatures, driven by revenge, that James and Miranda had become. Peter certainly had not. Silver, though, made him feel vindicated for it. 

One more sign that this was who he was now. James Flint. He would never take another name. For all the things that had been stolen from him, Nassau had only ever given him things. Home. The sea. His ship.

Silver's hands rose, and he pushed his fingers into Flint's hair. His thumbs pressed on either side of Flint's jaw. Flint followed the press of his hands. Silver tilted Flint's face up until they looked each other in the eye, only breath between them. "I meant to say this last night, but I'm afraid I fell asleep. A sadist with an axe cut my leg off, James. Not you. If you had been here, Vane might have killed you taking the ship. I made a choice then, like I made a choice with Vane and like I made a choice to save your life. Not all of my choices have been good ones - I chose to steal from you, lie to you, and betray you. But none of my choices have been your fault."

Flint couldn't think of words to say, taken aback by the fierce intensity with which Silver looked at him, the firm grip of his hands. He let his eyes close and leaned into the warm cradle of Silver's hands on him.

"I have to be on deck," he said reluctantly, pulling away. He nodded to the book. "I did get it for you to read."

The intensity had not disappeared from Silver, and there was want in his face, too. "This evening, then," he said.

Flint stood, watching Silver pick up _Meditations_ and settle back in his customary place. His ghosts still hung around his shoulders, in his memories and his dreams. The Hamiltons, though, deserved a peaceful rest, and his spirit did feel lighter for talking of them, even if most of that talk was of their tragedy.

The sun was high overhead, throwing its reflection off the water. Flint's steps carried him to the quarterdeck, where he stood at the rail overlooking his ship. His life. This was all his future now - and in the bright light of day, with Silver's calm acceptance of his past and all that he was, that prospect no longer seemed so loathsome.

\----------

For the second night, the ship dropped sea anchor. Silver read by the dying light of the sun, the pages lit up brilliant gold and scarlet. A red sunset boded well for their next morning. Despite their measly four knots of speed throughout the day, the mood of the ship seemed to lift as the night sky went from blood to crimson.

_"That which does not make a man worse than he was, also does not make his life worse, nor does it harm him either from without or from within."_

Silver frowned down at the page. "Easy for you to say. You were an emperor and I'll bet you died with both legs." He turned the page, but the light was failing him, and as it shaded into purple he was forced to close the book and set it aside.

Howell had brought him something to eat. He wasn't able to identify what it was, and it tasted like fish and not much else. He'd come to the ship with some truly awful culinary skills, but he'd gotten much better - whatever this slop was tasted like some of his first attempts. Silver scratched absently at the top of his bandage, wondering what would happen when he was able to make his way around the ship again. One of the reasons why he hadn't wanted the post of quartermaster was the duty to go over the rail. He hardly thought the men would want him to board an enemy ship when he could barely walk, so that left the question of what he would do. Would his home still be the galley? Would he return to his own hammock in the forecastle once Howell cleared him?

It wasn't the first time his future had been so uncertain, but it was the first time he'd had a foundation to build from. There were constants, now - that this ship was his home, that the crew were his brothers, and that Flint was...

Flint was his lover. It didn't feel uncomfortable any longer to ascribe that name to the closeness they had come to share. All of their secrets had been lifted from between them, and with the captain's past finally laid bare for him to see, they stood on level ground.

It was fully dark outside the stern windows by the time the cabin door opened to admit Flint. Silver shook himself from his thoughts to observe him, wondering how the memories he had relived that afternoon were affecting him.

It seemed that he needn't have worried - as soon as the cabin door closed behind him, stiffness left Flint's spine and the set of his shoulders, his stride became looser and easier, and the rigid control fell away from his face until Silver could plainly see the care that stole over it when Flint looked at him. It pulled a smile from him without his conscious decision, and it felt genuine.

"With any luck, the wind will pick up by morning. We can make Nassau in a little over a day at full sail." Flint came straight to the window seat. Silver moved to let him sit, but Flint stopped in front of him instead, leaning over him.

"The sooner we can get back to Nassau the better," Silver said. "I can't imagine we'll be able to avoid the Royal Navy forever, and the Spanish must be none too pleased with the loss of the Urca and the warship both."

"Not to mention putting Vane and his crew off the ship."

"Not to mention."

Flint hesitated for a moment, and then said, "How are - do you feel well?"

Silver knew why the question came with such a pause before it - he hadn't reacted well to other inquiries after his health, and Flint had yet to ask him about it directly. "It aches like fire. You should see it under the bandage. It's hideous."

"I have," Flint said. His voice was quiet, and he was visibly struggling to keep any kind of sympathy from showing on his face. A warm feeling curled up in Silver's chest, that Flint was so concerned for his pride. "I was there when Howell closed it up the first time."

"Another week before I can move around on my own," Silver said with a long sigh, and then offered Flint one of the cheeky grins that used to annoy the man so. "I suppose you'll just have to keep me occupied in the meantime."

Instead of the humorless glare or deadpan look Silver had grown so used to, Flint raised his eyebrows, one corner of his mouth twisting up in a wry smirk. "I suppose you probably have some ideas on that score."

"Captain, I do believe you are accusing me of impure thoughts." Silver was mockingly serious, but he couldn't keep the grin from widening, and there was no stopping the flush of desire that coursed through him. "What could make you think such a thing of me?"

That won him a short huff of disbelief. "Experience." Flint leaned in, propping one arm on the window beside Silver's head, closing the distance between them. "And evidence." He nudged one knee between Silver's, pushing them apart, and ground his thigh against the hardening arousal in Silver's trousers.

"I admit it. I'm a sinner of the worst kind. An unrepentant sodomite." Silver was a shade breathless, and he rocked into the pressure on his groin shamelessly. Their rudely interrupted encounter from the evening before had left him more than a little frustrated.

"I don't want you repentant." Flint's voice was rough and Silver shuddered at it. The kiss that followed was wet, slow, and deep. Flint always kissed like he was conquering, but this was different. Silver slid his tongue into Flint's mouth and back again, teasing, and Flint's other hand came up to tangle in his hair, fingers pressing on the back of his neck. Silver pressed into it, gripping at Flint's shirt and pulling.

He pulled back far enough to say, "Closer," and then caught Flint's mouth again. The lust curling up his spine was warm and languid, not near as urgent as it usually was. Flint's beard scraped against his mouth. The hand on the back of Silver's neck was an almost-ticklish pressure that felt like the forestay, holding the mast in place with deceptively a gentle pull.

Flint tugged at Silver's shirt, and they separated for a brief interlude of fighting their clothes. The pieces scattered around them on the deck, and Flint had to help Silver guide his trousers off over the bandage. Flint neither lingered nor paid any attention to it, instead planting his knees on either side of Silver's hips.

The sudden rush of skin to skin contact pulled a low, wanting noise from him. Silver was pinned by the captain's weight, Flint's thighs spread wide over his own. He scraped his fingernails over the ginger curls on Flint's chest, finding old and new scars as he touched. Flint gripped the windowsill on either side of Silver's head, the blacks of his eyes consuming the blue. The muscles in his thighs flexed, and Silver's head thumped against the window, moaning in pure appreciation as Flint ground them together.

Flint's hands were on him again, and Silver pressed into the touch, pulling against the fingers in his hair and pressing into the palm that settled on his side. Flint shifted again, biting at his lips and then his jaw, sending little hot bursts of pleasure across his skin. Silver tilted his head and Flint took the encouragement, sealing his lips over the soft place below his ear.

"James, God!" he shouted, twisting his hips for more friction. Flint pressed his tongue against Silver's skin and sucked, sending Silver into near-incoherence, every exhaled breath hitching on a noise of satisfaction. He pressed his palm against Flint's skin, stroking down over the hard plane of his stomach to take both of their cocks in hand.

"Fuck," Flint said, his breath washing hot over Silver's ear and the no doubt livid mark Flint had left on his neck. He pushed into Silver's grip and panted against his skin, his fingers tightening over Silver's ribs.

"God yes." Silver twisted his wrist and pumped slowly, the sensation dragging up his nerves and down to his very bones, his cock flushed and wet at the tip. "I wish we could _now_. I want you like this again. Want to fuck you."

Flint's mouth crashed down over his, and Silver looped his free arm around Flint's chest, tugging him further forward until their skin shifted against each other with every movement. Flint's face was slack with pleasure when he pulled away, his hair coming loose from its tie to fall around his face. "Tell me what you'd do if you had me."

That was like a jolt straight to his cock - the words and the rough way Flint said them, like he was getting off on the thought just as much as Silver was. "I'd have you over me like this," he said, his voice stuttering every time Flint ground them together, fucking into Silver's fist and sliding against his cock. "I want to watch your face while I open you around my fingers, want to see you come undone above me, want to hear the kind of sounds you would make as you sink down on my cock."

"You're the one with the mouth," Flint growled, and then licked across the mouth in question until Silver was straining after his lips, chest heaving, bucking his hips against Flint's cock and his own hand.

"I think-" Silver's fingers dug into Flint's spine, and he was close, damn it all, so close, but he wanted to see Flint go over first- "I think I could pull you apart at the seams. I think I could - _fuck_ , James - take my time with you and have you saying ' _Please John, please_ ' the way you're so fond of hearing me beg."

"John!" Flint's spine went taught and his thighs clamped down hard over Silver's when he came, spilling across Silver's hand and his stomach both. Silver moaned with him, and he would have kept going for himself were it not for the way Flint caught his wrist in a firm grip and drew his hand away. Their foreheads rested together for a moment while Flint caught his breath, until Silver was practically trembling with the effort of holding still.

Flint looked distinctly smug, with his eyes half-lidded dark, as he heaved himself to his feet and then just as quickly went down on the deck, his hands wrapping around Silver's thighs and pushing them apart.

Silver was quite convinced that as long as he lived, he would never forget the sight of Flint swallowing his cock down while it was still smeared wet with the man's own come, that and saliva slicking his beard. The heat of his mouth and the slow, determined way he pulled off and then sucked him in again was dizzying and singular and had him spilling into Flint's mouth with a shout.

Flint sucked him dry and didn't stop until Silver was squirming and pushing at his hair, the pleasure shading into an ache behind his cock and down into his balls, too sensitive to take any more. Flint let Silver's softened cock slide from his mouth and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Silver's right thigh.

"Come here," Silver said, his voice roughened from the intensity of his pleasure.

Flint climbed to his feet again and Silver tugged at his waist - the captain settled on the window seat and shifted until Silver was lying against his chest, his weight all on his right leg. Silver was sleepily content and only too pleased to rest against the warm, bare skin stretched out beneath him.

The silence between them was comfortable. That was something new. Silences before had been dangerous for the questions they precluded, but there were no answers to be wary of now.

Flint spoke first, after he had threaded his fingers through Silver's hair to set his palm on the back of Silver's neck. Silver was beginning to realize that it was as much a comforting gesture for the captain as it was for him - possessive, on Flint's part. He didn't object to that in the slightest.

"I haven't let anyone have me for a very long time," Flint said, and Silver immediately knew he was talking about Thomas.

"But you would?" Silver shifted - the throbbing in his leg had only been forgotten, not quelled, by their pleasurable activities. "Let me, I mean."

"Yes." There was no hesitation there, and Silver made a low noise of approval. The sweat on their skin was cooling - at the first sign of a shiver in Silver, Flint groped around for the discarded blanket and pulled it over the two of them.

Warmed on both sides, Silver felt his eyelids grow heavy. The steady beat of Flint's heart under his ear and the rise and fall of his chest was luring him into slumber. There was only one more thing drifting in the back of his mind.

"What was your name? Before... everything."

He almost regretted the question when Flint's fingers tightened on his ribs abruptly, but as quick as the tension had come, it spooled out of the captain like it had never been there in the first place.

"It doesn't matter," Flint said. "It's not who I am anymore."

Silver knew he should be content with the answer - if nothing else, it meant that Flint had come to some kind of acceptance. He couldn't help but wonder still, though, if he was the first to call out Flint's first name in passion, or if it was something else he shared with the man who had come before him.

Flint snorted softly, as if realizing that Silver's curiosity wasn't assuaged. "It was always 'James,'" he offered.

"James," Silver was half-asleep, and he murmured the name into Flint's skin. His eyes were still cracked open enough to see that the moonlight out the stern windows was breaking on the waves into taller and taller peaks. The wind was picking up, and the ship seemed to moan and shudder in anticipation all around them. "We'll make Nassau tomorrow."

"Back home," Flint murmured, softly enough that he probably hadn't expected Silver to hear it. He shifted Silver off of him and withdrew, lowering Silver carefully to the window seat despite his sleepy protests. "Go to sleep, John."

In the morning, there would be something else, he was sure. The Guthries no longer held Nassau, and there was no way of knowing who did until they put into port. There was the question of the gold, and Vane, and the ship, and what to do when the Royal Navy finally came for them. Despite all of it, for once in Silver's life, in the midst of the uncertainty there was something unshakeable and solid.

Silver would wake up in the morning and matter, at least to one person, and there was nowhere else in the world where that was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read and loved this series. It was a blast to write from the first to the last. Letting it end is a little bittersweet, but I'm satisfied, and I hope you all are too :)


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